Thrown Into The Mix
by nerdishchick96
Summary: Set between Hounds and Reichenbach. Louise Chase, a teenage girl is assigned to John for around a month, they seem to get on, nothing could ruin it, right? Enter Jim Moriarty. Possible Johnlock later on, the characters have their own ideas! :P x
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, what the hell is this?"

Dr John Watson stood over the armchair by the television glaring down at his flatmate. He was holding no more than twelve severed fingers in a slightly open zip lock bag. Another finger had fallen out, and had dripped all over John's new jumper.

Needless to say, he wasn't impressed.

Sherlock opened his eyes to find this picture, groaned, and rolled to his side, tucking his feet under him. He could already see this wouldn't be a good day.

"I was bored."

"And?"

"I distracted myself with an experiment."

"Oh really,"

"Yes, really," said Sherlock, sitting up looking directly at John now, "I thought I would see how long it took for them to decompose." John gave the man an incredulous look as he backed away to let Sherlock make his way to the kitchen, and begin to pace.

Sherlock hadn't been himself recently, he had begun to forget where he left things; he would fumble over what he was trying to say. John was worried, he had never seen Sherlock like this, and his flatmate already had a habit of going into a quiet mood. Now John wouldn't hear from him for days on end, and then Sherlock would start yammering on about their latest case, as if no time had passed. The detective wouldn't even eat unless John was there to remind him sometimes, and these habits were getting worse. There were even times when Sherlock would stop, and watch something over John's shoulder, with either a vacant or alarmed expression. It was as if someone was following him. He was much more jumpy, too. A simple loud noise would send him off; he even reacted to firing his own gun, well, John's gun. _It was all after that bloody hound_ thought John, as he watched his friend march through their London flat. A few months ago, they had travelled to Yorkshire, to help a man called Henry Knight. The effects of the hallucinogenic gas had long since worn off, yet fear seemed much more in Sherlock's life. John had only just out these two pieces of information together. _Something must have gone wrong, or perhaps triggered him; I really don't know anything about Sherlock's childhood. Maybe I'll –_

"Sixteen,"

John blinked his way back into their flat. He realised he had been staring, but it didn't seem too bad, as Sherlock was staring too. "Um, what?" John gaped at Sherlock, how many times had he said the number before he heard it?

"Sixteen. There were sixteen fingers in here. Sixteen exactly, there's 12 now, and another one fell on your jumper," Sherlock grimaced at John's stripy jumper – which was two different shades of brown. "So there are three around here somewhere." He said, flatly, and began to look under the table.

"Three fingers, that aren't ours,"

"I got them from Bart's mortuary. You didn't drop them did you?"

John shot him a look. It didn't work, they never did, but it couldn't hurt to try. He scanned all areas of the kitchen he had taken the fingers, and they were nowhere. Sherlock would have to hold the blame.

"You just left three loose fingers around our flat?" John watched as Sherlock opened every crack and crevice to find the appendages. He flitted through the kitchen, into the living room, and proceeded to crawl under the chairs, then the sofa.

"They're not alive, John. Don't worry! You won't wake up to find one on you." Sherlock retorted, not even bothering to look at his friend. He grinned to himself at the image of John waking up in bed to find a small finger writhing its way up his chest, like an episode of the Addams Family.

"That's it, you can find them yourself." John grabbed his coat, walked out the door and went downstairs. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, having decided the fingers were not in the living either, got up and sat on the sofa, contemplating possible hiding places if he were a lone finger.

"Out."

"Looking like that?"

Sherlock could hear John trump up the stairs again and close his bedroom door.

(^^) (-..-) (#)

"John!"

"John!"

"John, have you got a pen!"

Oh, right. John was out again. Sherlock really needed to learn to listen sometimes, maybe then John wouldn't go out so much. It was quiet in the flat, not even Mrs Hudson could be heard from downstairs, pottering about, or gossiping with Mrs Smith from down the road. Sherlock was bored. Really bored, if John hadn't hidden his gun the wall would be decorated by now. Of course Sherlock would be able to find his flatmate's gun, but he didn't fancy the aftermath of taking it, again. He got up from his chair, and looked out the window, staring down at the street below him. People watching, not overly entertaining, but everyone needed a hobby. As eleven turned to twelve o clock, Sherlock had seen 3 men having an affair – with 1 on a date with a mistress – 4 women late for work, 7 homeless people aimlessly standing about and 5 teenagers busking. Tediously boring.

As the thought crossed his mind, he noticed his purple shirt was starting to look unkempt, meaning it would need a wash soon. Shame, it was his favourite.

_Now look at me!_ Sherlock thought as he moved back to his chair. _Something better come up soon before I become completely domesticated. Before we know it John will come home to find me in an apron scrubbing the oven. _He drummed his hands against the arms of the chair, hoping Lestrade would bring along a case for him. He had given one the other day; about something so boring Sherlock couldn't even remember, he must have deleted it at some point. Deciding it wasn't worth the trouble he'd get into with John if he refused to eat, Sherlock rose from his seat and went to the kitchen for a snack.

_Four weeks for CRB to come into place._

Sherlock ignored the rice he had just taken from the cupboard, and went back over to John's chair. On the table next to it, lay a document. Obviously it would be invading John's privacy just reading through his letters. Ah, but from this angle it looked like a bill, they shared a flat, if John had to pay a bill so would Sherlock, so it was a justified peek.

_CRB._ A check from the Criminal Records Bureau, which was dated to about five weeks ago. Sure John, being a doctor, wouldn't need one? From what Sherlock could recover in his memory, they only lasted about eight years, and needed constant renewal. Yet John had never needed one while he lived at 221B. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he looked at the paper. Usually these were for a person who wished to take care of a person – well, yes John's a doctor – or working with children, such as becoming a teacher, or guide leader. This was distinctly for under sixteen's, and definitely a check for a school. _Oh, God, he's not adopting or something stupid like that, is he? _Sherlock wondered carefully putting the letter down so John wouldn't notice. It was obvious that the doctor struggled to hold down a girlfriend, and he wasn't getting any younger, but neither of the men had ever mentioned having a family, nor any plans of it.

Sherlock fetched his violin, and sat down with his sheet music. They said to write about what you know, and after today he knew boredom very well. He started to tune the strings.

The doorbell rang. It was a single, short buzz that echoed through the building. It must have been a younger person due to the duration of the ring, and only one showed nerves. Perhaps a customer? Well, as long as they had something interesting, anything would do.

Sherlock lay down his violin, and went down the stairs to make his day that little more interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Right, move on to chapter two! Not too sure where this is going yet, but I have a few ideas, so hold on! Feel free to drop in a review, I'd love to know what you think so far :)**

**Enjoy xxx**

Sherlock opened the door to find a girl standing in front of him. _"Right, what can I gather from her?" _He thought before he could even see her properly. The girl had strawberry blonde hair, falling to her shoulders in loose curls, partially covering her face, while the rest was obscured by large turquoise glasses in retro fashion. She was very short, indicating either she was very young and yet to grow, or had stopped at an early age and was doomed to be tiny. Most likely the latter, looking at her figure, which was far closer to woman than girl, but probably only fifteen. The raises in her make-up showed she still suffered from spots, meaning she was younger than Sherlock had originally thought. She was carrying a note pad, with a pen in the spine, and she had a faint pen mark down the side of her left hand. Other than physical features, Sherlock was unable to see what was going through her mind. This never happened, yet she was so difficult. He'd need to think of some cleverer tricks for her.

"Excuse me, does Dr Watson live here?" she said sweetly, she was well spoken, but not quite from around here, hints of Irish. Nothing else was given away. She waited for Sherlock to give an answer as he tried to pry more information from her.

Sadly, he could not.

"Yes, he does. Unfortunately he's not in at the moment, could I take a message?" Sherlock spoke just as gently as she had, maybe he could get more from that. At least she was taking away some of the boredom, she was a challenge.

"Oh, no matter. He was supposed to be here to meet me, though..." She trailed off looking around, perhaps hoping to conjure up John from thin air. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Louise, Louise Chase. John volunteered with my school for some coursework I need to do." She put her hand out, and Sherlock curiously took it "Sherlock Holmes" He replied. Just as he let go, his phone vibrated, without any acknowledgement to Louise, he pulled it out.

_Forgot to say, we're having a visitor. Getting home now, if she turns up, let her in._

Just as Sherlock invited her in and showed her up the stairs, another text came.

_Behave._

What an insult, of course he would behave. Sherlock allowed Louise to find a seat, and they sat in silence. "Tea?" He offered, like a good little host, and even made it for her. Once they had sat down again she opened her notepad and started to write. John was taking longer than expected. Sherlock would have to be human sooner or later, conversation, and small talk. Oh joy.

"So, Chase isn't a very Irish name."

"Should I be Irish?" Louise looked inquisitively at the man she had just met. She set her tea down, and sat back, waiting for an answer.

"You have a lilt in your voice. Surely there's Gaelic in you somewhere, I'm assuming you Mother as the name probably comes from your Father, who I'm guessing is English and you moved out here to accommodate his work, as most families do for the breadwinner, your Mum certainly did well to keep a strong enough accent to give you one."

Louise smirked at him. What, had Sherlock missed something? She crossed her legs and leant forward. "I knew I'd heard your name before." She said, slightly quieter. "Consulting Detective, right?" She certainly wasn't as dippy as she had first seemed. "You're correct, how'd I do?" Sherlock asked, in a blasé manner, he didn't want her to know how much effort that took. He leaned back in his chair, hoping to give off a different body language to what he felt.

"Well, I can tell you, Sherlock Holmes that that was completely," She scoffed "Wrong." Sherlock tried not to show anything, no emotion was better than the wrong one. She smiled through her explanation. "My Father is the Irish one – strongest accent you'll ever hear – he moved over here to be with my Mum, as her parents, my grandparents, disapproved of her moving so far away to be with a 'fling'" She spoke quickly, slightly louder than earlier, she was coming into her stride, and started to talk on Sherlock's level. "I kept her name rather than my Dad's because Mum died a few years after I was born. Apparently I look just like her, and Dad wanted me to have something to remember her by. I think he regrets that, only sometimes, mind. Some days he'll just look at me, if I do something particularly well, or when I play my piano, he'll go quiet for a while. Sometimes I think I'm like her too much." Louise was quiet for a moment. Fearing she had said too much. It was clear to Sherlock she worried about her small family, as any person does.

Apart from Mycroft and himself.

"I'm sorry I pried." Sherlock said; looking genuinely embarrassed to have extracted that outburst from a girl he had just met. "You must love your Dad very much." Louise looked at the detective with the tiniest of smiles, she seemed fine with it. "Don't worry about it," She said, opening her book once again, "It's good, you're making my work much more interesting than I thought it would be." And without further ado she started scrawling and scribbling on what appeared to be staves of empty sheet music, ignoring Sherlock altogether. Before he could ask what she was actually here for that front door banged.

"I'm back!" John called as he climbed up the stairs laboriously, due to the large amount of Tesco bags in each hand. He grumbled something about no one helping when he noticed from the kitchen that his guest had arrived. "Ah, Louise, I see you met Sherlock. He hasn't been too annoying, has he?" John pulled a chair slightly away from the table to join the two. He looked at the desk.

"Have you been on my laptop?"

"No."

"You have your own, you know,"

"Yes, I do know, thanks for pointing it out."

John sighed as he turned to Louise, who still hadn't revealed why she was here. "He hasn't tried to show off yet, has he?"

Sherlock looked at Louise with more interest. She looked at him, seeming to communicate a hell of a lot, yet nothing Sherlock or John could understand. She smiled almost and turned to John and said as politely as a girl her age could.

"Oh, not at all. From what you've told me, he's behaved very well." She looked into her book. "I've already got a few phrases thrown in, not sure if I'll use them, but if I get a little bit of everything, there must be something I could use!" She then got up and started to look in the kitchen, with a remark along the lines of "Never know what'll come in handy," and started to look at the mugs. Sherlock didn't appreciate her picking up his favourite stripy mug, but he could cope, for today.

John looked at Sherlock. He seemed worried. "Are you all right?" He asked, getting up to clear away the morning paper, along with the document Sherlock had found earlier. Sherlock seemed to be much quieter than usual with Louise around. He looked at John nervously. "I couldn't read her, John." He said with an urgent tone. He seemed as bewildered by the fact as did John, "I observed her for about half an hour before you arrived, and I had no idea what she was here for, still don't to be honest, she never told me."

Both men sat in silence for a minute, with Louise just audibly humming in the kitchen. John was the first to recover. "Have you ever thought that you're not invincible, Sherlock?" He asked; there was genuine curiosity in his voice, as Sherlock fidgeted about in his chair looking away for a moment, then at Louise, then back to John. "Yes, of course I have." He said plainly. "But I can always understand what's going through a person's mind. When we first met, I could tell you everything about your sister's habits and problems. With this one though, I had nothing."

"Maybe you're a little under the weather. You don't get sick that often, so you probably wouldn't notice." John tried to make Sherlock feel better, just a little bit. "Anyway, what does it matter? I volunteered with her school to be a... a muse for her music coursework."

"A muse?" Sherlock chuckled, looking directly at John now, all worry gone from his face. "What exactly could she write for you? A marching band piece? Please tell me she won't give you a plodding beat to represent your cane?" John looked at Sherlock, who had definitely cheered up, he was about to reply when

"Considering I've never seen John with a cane, I won't use any 'plodding'" Louise replied as she sat down in the living room again giving Sherlock what seemed to be a mixture between a glare and sympathetic look. "I'm supposed to look at personalities, and relationships between those closest to my subject." She said, looking between John and Sherlock in turn. "So Mr Holmes, behave yourself or my examiners will know exactly what I think of you."

Neither man could quite tell if she was joking or not, until a little smile crept on her face. Before they could react, Sherlock's phone rang; he answered and was silent for a moment. He put it back in his pocket.

"Lestrade has another one for us." He said, almost gleefully. "There have been three murders so far, and another woman has been receiving threats. Brilliant!" He exclaimed, jumped up from his seat and got his coat. He was followed by John, while Louise stayed where she was. "Right, enjoy your investigation. John, are you free tomorrow? I'd love to meet some of your friends."

"Aren't you coming?"

It was Sherlock who had spoken, he seemed to be almost upset to see her leave so early. Louise stood.

"They wouldn't mind a child wandering about?"

"Of course not."

"People won't say 'Ooh, it's not safe for a fifteen year old!'"

"Nope, come along, Chase!"

Sherlock had dragged Louise out of the flat before either she or John could reply.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi! Here's chapter three, with some new adjustments. The story keeps changing itself, I've no idea where it's going! I think the characters are deciding their own paths now. Ah well, I can live with simple narrating. Feel free to drop in a review, I'd love to know what you guys think :D**

**Enjoy xxx**

"John, who's this?"

Lestrade looked to the doctor, who was rather confused, himself. The three of them had taken a cab in an awkward silence, until Sherlock murmured details of the case with John, and explained to Louise their jobs when John wasn't healing sick people. The girl hadn't seemed thrown by it, but intrigued. She took in every little detail, never interrupting the detective in his stride. John seemed bewildered by it all, first she completely shocks his friend by being unreadable, and then they get on like a house on fire. John decided maybe it was better this way, Sherlock had far too many people hating him, and this way Louise would have plenty to write about. As long as it felt like it made sense, John could pretend it did.

Before John could garble out some excuse, Louise piped up. "Oh, you must be Mr Lestrade," She spoke much louder, and clearer than before, projecting herself, teeming with confidence. "I'm Louise Chase, and I'm studying these two for the next month, which means I'll be accompanying them to most places. I hope you don't mind, Detective Inspector." By the time she was finished, she had given Lestrade a firm handshake, and dragged John off to see what all the fuss was about. Allowing the men to share a baffled look for just a second.

Sherlock, of course, was already inspecting the body, going at full pelt, perhaps showing off a little too much for their 'guest.' By the time John and Louise were there, he had talked to the threatened woman, and probably frightened her even more. She was called Grace Jenkins, a secretary for a local businessman, and wasn't exactly living in poverty. Jenkins was sat on her sofa still in her coat; apparently she had only just got home when she received another letter. Sherlock sat on a chair opposite, while John rested against the chair as Louise placed herself next to Jenkins, with a warm smile on her face. She seemed to be almost motherly at points.

"There's no point staying really, I've got what I need and it turns out she really is much more boring than I'd hoped." Sherlock drawled, ignoring the woman now, having turned to John. "Sherlock, try not to be yourself for a minute." John sighed as he turned back to Jenkins, "Why don't you tell us when these letters started appearing." He said with a much more considerate voice than his friend.

Jenkins looked to Louise who had appeared to have completely changed her demeanour to the one she had outside, or in the flat for that matter. "It could be someone you know, and if we can link anything to that it'll be the time this all started." She said, smiling encouragingly at the woman, who opened her mouth to speak.

What came out must have been pure evil. She had the most nasally shrillest voice known to man. Sherlock and John managed to keep up a facade, while Louise's face crumpled for a moment, seeming disgusted. She only blinked a few times, and then carried on with the act until Jenkins had said her piece. Jenkins handed the three of them the fourth, and most recent, letter she had been given.

_Not long now, my angel. _

_How beautiful you are. I've seen you for many weeks now, and you're absolutely gorgeous. And modest too, you wouldn't believe me even if I told you so in the flesh. _

_How about that? You meet me, I formerly meet you. My angel and I, together for all eternity. I've had angels before, don't feel special. I've met your kind. I've attempted to free so many of you, sadly, no one has survived the transformation. But only because they never accepted their beauty. If you admit to me your angelic purpose in life, I can set you free. Forever. _

_And you can take me with you. Just keep an eye out for me, angel, for I am never too far away. Remember who you are, angel. The others didn't, now look at them?_

_All my love_

Afterwards, the three of them said goodbye to their new client and had flagged down the next available taxi. They were still in view of the police until they entered the vehicle. Once out of sight, Sherlock, John and Louise flopped down onto the seat. Louise sighed, and the other two looked, waiting for an explanation.

"That voice!" She blurted, deciding to point out the obvious. "I never want to hear that again. I'll join you two on your next case. That was disgusting!"

"Surely it wasn't that bad-"

"Funnily enough, it was." Louise scoffed as she looked out the window, and then to her watch. It was getting late.

John and Sherlock looked at each other, then at their new companion, then at each other again. Neither one could say which one laughed first, but one definitely set off the other. When Louise brought her attention back to the pair they were in a fit of giggles. She scowled at them. She may have been young, but not young enough to ignore it.

"What?" She said, looking at the two of them, who both looked at Louise and chuckled some more. "Wouldn't you rather an honest kid than a liar?" They had to admit she had a point.

"It's just," John started, "You have no tact whatsoever." Sherlock finished, both of them smiling at the girl. Louise, oddly enough, wasn't as amused. "So? I don't suffer fools gladly, and have a low tolerance to stupid people who don't know how irritating they are. Surely you can relate to that a little bit?"

Sherlock stopped laughing as John shot him a look. The detective seemed almost embarrassed, and decided to bring the subject back to Louise's lack of people skills. "Yes, but she can't really help having a voice like that, it's not like she can change it," he said, trying to get John back on side. Louise promptly threw back – in an unusual tone – "Please, anyone can change their voice, and we all do it pretty much every day." She sounded almost exactly like Grace Jenkins, and carried on with her point "When I first met you two I spoke very differently, most people won't notice it because it just fades out as a person becomes more familiar. Eventually you forget the attempt at a good first impression. Don't argue, Sherlock, I can see you hatching a plan, let's just say this point is completely right and there's nothing you can do about it." She finished, leaning back into her seat.

Sherlock accepted defeat as John stared at the two. This never happened, not since Irene...

The taxi dropped Louise off down the road from her house, apparently due to the fact that her Dad didn't want two men he'd never met knowing their address, which was fair enough. John and Sherlock continued to 221B and quietly went to bed, as not to wake Mrs Hudson.

As both of them lay in their own beds each man had a similar thought; perhaps having a teenager around wouldn't be as bad as they thought, may be helpful, even.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, guys! So here's chapter four for you, I had this all planned out, then some plot bunnies decided to breed and I had to completely re-write it -.- This also mean I've changed around chapter three a bit in the middle, so you may want to check that out :) Well, feel free to review and let me know what you think of this so far! I'd love to hear your opinions :D  
Enjoy xxx**

John sat in his chair, reading the morning paper as usual, but unusually, he wasn't disturbed. Sherlock had gone out and the flat was in complete silence. Well, apart from Mrs Hudson poking her head in every now and then, offering some sandwiches she had made or a cup of tea. Funnily enough, it was always Mrs Hudson who persisted on not being a housekeeper. By one o' clock that afternoon, John had managed to go down to the clinic, see there were no appointments for him that day, tidy up the flat, and chat with Louise about his life before moving back to London, so she could get every aspect. He'd even listened to her first main themes, as she explained each one to him, as if the instruments had personalities of their own. And he'd read the paper in his hands about three times. There was nothing to do but sit back and breathe.

God he was bored.

So, apparently Sherlock had rubbed off on him. John thought about popping down to Speedy's. He could sit there for an hour, people-watching. It was always entertaining, but never as much alone. Everyone John knew was working, or married off with kids, meaning they'd be stuck at home too. He decided to call his mates later, closer to them getting out of work; and hopefully a trip down the pub could cure him.

A door slammed downstairs, and the sound of Sherlock's shoes pattered up the stairs. Honestly, that was the only way John could describe it. Pattering. Whatever had excited Sherlock that day, John was bound to be on the receiving end. His flatmate burst into the room. He threw himself into the chair by the TV and sat quietly, waiting for John to notice him.

"Do you know what I've found?" Sherlock asked eagerly, deciding John would obviously be interested.

"What?"

"I know where the stalker is."

"Stalker?"

"Yes, John, haven't you paid attention? All these women who've received threats were then murdered three days after the fourth letter. It's only been two, so we only have until tomorrow night. But..." Sherlock leaned forward, waiting for John to finish.

"You know where he is."

"Of course,"

John sighed, folded his paper away and gave full concentration to his friend. "Right, where are we going, what are we doing, and are we going to get ourselves killed?" Sherlock contemplated the consequences of his answers, then replied with: "Down in Croydon, about half an hour's drive from here. Of course, we're going to catch the man, that's what we're paid to do. No, we won't get into that much trouble; I've got people on hand."

"Homeless network?"

"Yep,"

John looked at his friend, it had been a while since their last case, and he could see Sherlock wanting to explode and go find the man now. He'd have to keep him safe, tonight would be all about solving the case for Sherlock, regardless of anyone's safety. "All right, when are we leaving?" Sherlock seemed almost surprised by John's answer, he had noticed John was in a way, slightly disturbed by the notes left to Grace Jenkins, and hadn't expected him to bite so quickly. "Later on, tonight. I've been informed that he'll be making final arrangements, for what, I'm not sure, but he'll be out in the open for us."

That was that. They'd catch him tonight.

(^^) (-.-) (TT)

After putting up with Sherlock wandering about for hours on end, mumbling, and constantly asking for the time, John decided to hide in his room. It was much quieter there; he had crept in with an excuse of finding a warmer coat. A chill had set in that week, but Sherlock wasn't fooled. The two of them had known each other for too long by then, and stayed away so each man could prepare himself. Not that it was any different to any other night. Luckily, there was no way Louise would be coming along tonight, so John didn't need to worry about that. He stood up, straightened himself, and then went to his chest of drawers. He opened the top right hand drawer, to find it empty. Well, not empty, it was full of grey and brown socks, but was empty considering what he was looking for.

When John entered the living room, he saw Sherlock sitting with his violin, re-tuning it for the third time this week. The moment John appeared in his view Sherlock jumped up, putting his violin away and got his coat and scarf. He walked towards the door, and gestured for John to go first.

"Where's my gun?"

John crossed his arms, and straightened up. The height difference was reduced only a tiny bit, but John wasn't giving up yet. Sherlock avoided his eyes. "I don't know. Really, John, you need to be more careful with you possessions." He moved to leave the flat, but before that, John had positioned himself in front of the door, blocking Sherlock's escape. "Sherlock, even I'm not really supposed to have it, there's no way I'm allowing you to leave the house with it. You never use it right anyway." Sherlock looked offended. "Well, surely I should notify the police that you have an illegal weapon. And I do not use it wrong, my methods are different to yours, and you can't criticise me on that." He took a step forward, being much smaller; John would have to be the one to move. Neither man budged.

"How do I use it wrong, then?"

"Give it here and I'll show you,"

"Really, John?"

He sighed. "You hold it too firm, and you put too much pressure on the trigger. That's not different, that's most definitely wrong. So help me, Sherlock Holmes, if I don't have my gun in a minute you won't be leaving the house and we'll have missed our chance, all because of your stubbornness." There was silence for a few moments. Sherlock reached into the breast pocket in his coat and pulled out John's pistol. John took it from him, checked the ammunition and put it in his own coat. "Thank you," He said, moving out of the way for Sherlock to lead on to their killer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! For once this seems to be a decent length for a chapter :D This wasn't at all in the original idea, but oh well! Characters have their own ideas about things sometimes! Feel free to drop in a review, I'd love to know what you think of this so far!**

**Enjoy xxx**

Sherlock charged out of 221B, closely followed by John. Both of them made attempts at hailing a taxi, both failed. It seemed most cabs were full tonight; and they'd have to walk some of the way. Sherlock, having far longer legs, seemed to be going at full pelt, he was bobbing and weaving between people, darting across roads and only stopping once or twice for John to catch up. Unfortunately for John, while all this was going on, his shoulder had decided to act up. This only happened every now and then, but only when John needed to be somewhere in a hurry. He could feel the tendons aching just between his collar bone and shoulder socket. He rolled his shoulder a few times, and then picked up speed to catch up with Sherlock.

The detective looked at his blogger. "Are you all right?" He asked, showing concern wasn't normal for Sherlock, so John would try to remember this moment. "Yeah, fine," He threw the comment away, "Just, the sooner we get to a cab, the better." Yet again, neither one of them could get a taxi to stop. After about ten minutes of trying, they decided to walk further.

"This has never happened before, John." Sherlock stated, his eyes darting around for an answer. "Perhaps it's been rigged, perhaps there's a code within the streets, perhaps-"

"I'm going to stop you there, Sherlock." John spoke louder than usual, taking Sherlock away from digging into his mind. "There's no code. This has happened before, remember the harpoon?"

"Oh, right."

"Yes, and none of the cabs took you then. Come on, let's find the tube." And with that, John turned around and marched off, with Sherlock trailing behind. Both men hated the underground stations, there was just something off-putting about it. Maybe it was the crowds, or maybe it was the black soot that appeared every time you blew your nose the next day, they would never know. Tubes certainly weren't the highlight of anyone's day.

(*0*)($.$)(O.o)

Louise hated using the tube. It was the easiest way for her to get around, though. The underground wasn't as creaking and worrying as the buses, and it wasn't as intimate as a taxi, but it was full of people who didn't give a damn about you. Louise was fine with that; she didn't give a damn about them. She had decided sometime last month that it was having watched 'American Werewolf in London' that had unsettled her the most. Of course it wasn't real, but you never know.

She dodged between passengers exiting the train as she made her way onto it. For once there seemed to be a seat left, and of course she took it without a moment's notice. Five minutes later, a heavily pregnant woman waddled into the carriage. No one had left yet, and no one looked up to see her panting and sweating, apparently exhausted. No one responded still. Louise sighed, and got up, looking over to the woman, "Do you want to sit down?" She asked, trying not to sound too polite. She didn't want to use her normal accent, as it would be deemed too posh and she didn't really want to be categorized today. "Oh, thank you," Said the other woman gratefully, maybe louder than it should have been, she gave pointed looks to the people who specifically watched her suffer standing up and completely blanked her. She sat down as Louise moved to hold onto a bar by the door.

Two stops later and Louise was half squashed against the door and half squashed against the pole next to it, holding on for dear life. She didn't think this many people could get on a tube carriage, apparently she was wrong. There were so many people all confined to this one little space, Louise felt like she would scream if she didn't escape soon. She didn't like people all that much, well, she could cope, but in these last few years she had grown less tolerant, less forgiving. Luckily she would be getting off at the next stop, and she'd be free to go where she pleased. The train slowed and eventually stopped, people started heaving in the carriage; and all charged when the door finally slid open, forcing Louise to practically fall out –

And land on John Watson. He looked just as surprised as she did, and she picked herself up, brushing herself down. John wasn't alone; Sherlock looked down to Louise, with the beginnings of a smirk on his face. Sherlock Holmes never smiled, and never looked this cheerful to see anyone. The two of them must have been on a case. "Ah, Louise, coming along then?" He asked, leading the girl back onto the train, much to John's dismay. When all three of them were in, the door shut and the train started up again. There was more room now, but they were still uncomfortable. Louise looked at the two men, surprised to say the least "What are you guys doing here? Neither of you ever take the tube." She said, waiting for an explanation

"Well, we couldn't get any cabs and we're in a bit of a rush." John replied "We're off to do something _dangerous_, which certainly isn't suitable for a _fifteen year old girl to join us on_" His last sentence was aimed specifically at Sherlock who looked almost hurt. "Come on, John. Like I'd actually let Louise get herself hurt, she's not that stupid anyway. Are you?" He looked at the girl, who tied her hair back and zipped up her fleece. "No, I'm not. But what are you two doing, anyway?" She asked, she seemed to be expecting to go with them, and John seemed to be the only one against it. John explained their plan whilst Sherlock interjected at points, saying it wasn't actually that dangerous, when you thought about it. When John had finished, Louise looked up at him, rubbing her palm with her thumb, a habit neither of the men had seen before.

"All right, so what do you want me to do?"

Sherlock's eyes lifted, while John's widened. They both looked at each other, Sherlock shrugged. "It's her choice." John puffed up, and looked at the taller man with authority. "Well it shouldn't be – no offence," he interrupted himself, looking to Louise "None taken." She replied without hesitation, and John continued. "So, we're off to catch a man, who obsesses over women, only a few years older than the one we have here, he threatens them, tortures them, then murders them. We have a girl here who's pretty, young, and a perfect target. What, do you plan to use her as bait?" He had raised his voice to Sherlock, not caring now if other people were listening. The detective was silent; he took a breath, and gestured to Louise. "Why don't you ask her about it?"

John turned to Louise, and is expression softened. "Louise, don't feel that you have to do this, you can go home any time you like. You said yourself, it's near the end of the month, and you've got plenty of information. It's not fair for us to put you in this position." He looked at the girl; he did sometimes forget she was only fifteen. She looked away for a moment, then got out a purple phone and fiddled around with it, only looking at John when she had finished.

"My phone has a security setting, if something's gone wrong, I press the volume button four times, and it'll call three emergency contacts, and it'll dial 999. You'll be able to hear what's going on, so it should be fine. Not that I'll get into any trouble, mind you. I've lived here forever, I know what I'm doing." She put the phone away. John considered this, and then spoke in a stern voice.

"You won't wander off?"

"No,"

"You will stay in public areas, and stay seen?"

"Of course,"

"You'll listen to everything we tell you?"

"Yes!"

"I hope you mean it, because I'm not going to explain to your family what happened if you get hurt."  
"Damn it, I can take care of myself, I won't do anything stupid, and I'll listen to you at all times. Are we finished now?"

John couldn't see Sherlock looking pleased at the girl's attitude, the moment he turned around the detective completely changed his face, appearing innocent. They were silent for the next few stops.

More people continued to bustle onto the carriage, the three of them struggled to stay together, but Louise was just in sight, they could keep an eye on each other, even though they were constantly split apart. Sherlock and John were still by the door, as it opened in another station approximately twelve people barged in, around seven of them hitting John's left shoulder as they went. His scarred shoulder; and Sherlock knew it would still ache sometimes. Each time John winced, Sherlock found himself almost wincing too, but there was nowhere to move. Most people were stuck in their positions now. As more people rushed in, they threatened to bump into John again, and before Sherlock knew it, he was hovering over John, both arms around him, holding the doctor out of harm's way.

Neither man knew what was going on, John was only aware of being pinned down by his friend. He looked up to see Sherlock looking directly back at him. John's stomach gave a small jolt, which he decided was due to either the dodgy sandwich at lunch, or Sherlock making him jump. It couldn't be anything else. Yet they had never been this close before, and Sherlock seemed to be far closer than he needed to be to protect his friend. He didn't seem to know what he was doing either. The two of them said nothing for a moment, they just looked. John had never noticed this much about Sherlock until now, his face seemed to have more lines that usual, which John guessed was from stress of cases. John could analyse ever curl on his head, the shape of his face, and his eyes. John already knew Sherlock had blue or grey eyes, but on closer inspection, they seemed almost green. Not just boring green, like most people, but pure, John had never seen such eyes.

"Uh, Sherlock, they're gone now, I – uh – think I can move about myself now,"

Sherlock blinked, bringing John back into focus, and then looking around at the other passengers. "Yes, of course." He rushed, before straightening up a bit too fast, and smacking his head on the roof. The men looked away from each other, and didn't talk.

After what seemed to be the longest trip in history, their stop finally came, Louise managed to push her way out to join the other two. They all went up the stairs, out of the station, and into the street.

"So, where to?"


	6. Chapter 6

**HELLO! Right, sorry for not updating in a while, been on holiday, which means no texting emailing, tumblring or writing -.- but I'm here now! The story's fully fledged in my mind, so hopefully I should get this finished reasonably quickly :D if not, stay tuned! Feel free to drop in a review, I'd ove to know what you think!**

**Enjoy xxx**

Sherlock, followed by John, closely trailed by Louise, all left the station, and turned right. They only walked for about five minutes before Sherlock stopped them. He turned to face John. "The man we're after is supposedly down here," He gestured to a nearby alleyway, it seemed dank and disgusting. "He's going to meet up with a friend in about five minutes. By that time we should be able to find him." Sherlock strode towards the alley, but John stopped him. "The homeless network normally gives you much more detail Sherlock, bit vague, wasn't it?" to two men shared a glance, the doubt fled from Sherlock's face as soon as it had appeared. "Yes, well, you can't expect them to know everything, can you?" They carried on up the street. Sherlock rushed off to find a good place to start looking, while John turned to Louise. "Stay, um, there. Okay? We'll be back; just, don't move." And with that, John disappeared into the darkness.

"Sherlock?" John called out, trying to find his friend in the constantly fading light. He could hardly see, and was about to call out again until-  
"Shush, John! I thought you were good at subtlety!" John heard the other man sigh "I'm over here, just look." John managed to join Sherlock, who had hidden himself by a large dustbin. Both men faded into the shadows and waited. Two hooded figures wandered out before them, they seemed to be exchanging something, the larger man walked off, leaving the shorter man alone. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a letter, Sherlock could make out vague words _'Angel' _and _'freedom'_ – surely this had to be the killer. Sherlock moved forwards slightly, to get a better look. Unfortunately, John was directly behind him, and was forced to fidget so he could see as well.

Just as John was about to get in a good position, he slipped, bumping into Sherlock, therefore making noise. The man in front of them looked up; he only waited for Sherlock to say "Hello," before running down the street, promptly followed by the detective. John sighed before doing his best to keep up with the two men.

(*_*)

Louise raised her arms, in a gesture to no one in particular. She took a few paces down the street, and then back again. _'Stay there,' _she was old enough to take care of herself! She didn't need to be constantly watched. Louise moved her phone into her fleece pocket for easier access, just in case. She polled her hood up, and turned towards where John and Sherlock had run off. She'd been here before, it was fine. Louise started to make her way down the barren street, when a loud noise came from behind her. She jumped a little, and turned around. Passing the gap in the buildings, Louise could see a reasonably sized party marching down the street, singing and chatting loudly. She could see their red faces glinting off the street lights. With a mixture of relief and amusement, Louise began to turn around, to carry on, but before she could, she felt a firm grip on her forearm.

She moved her arm around, twisting the other person's own arm in doing so, and spun around to face whoever it was. She backed away from him, but still stayed close enough to see who it was. A man stood there, one she had never seen before. She recognised him once he said "Hello, did they send you then?"

Surely it was him; he had a dull, dirt caked face. He had positioned her so her back was against the wall, Louise was trapped.

She held her head high, and looked the man straight in the eyes. Green eyes burst out from the dark shades that made up the entire man's body. Two crazed, delusional eyes, driven into living in an imaginary universe. They bore into Louise; the sight of them was much more frightening than the prospect of facing a stalker/murderer, and maybe having to find a way to avoid her own murder. She took a breath and put her hands in her pockets. "Depends on who you're talking about," She said, drawing his eyes away from her fidgeting pockets. They were hiding a certain phone, with a volume button held beneath Louise's fingers, ready and waiting.

The man before her took a step forward, putting his own hood up and putting his hands in his pockets. "There, now we're equals," He said, he had the softest voice imaginable. It was higher than most men's, at was quiet and gentle, like he was trying to comfort her. The longer she spent with this man, the more disturbed she realised he was. Louise edged further along the wall, just a little closer to the light, where people were. Where he couldn't attack her without being noticed.

He took his hands out of his pockets, to reveal, a long, curved knife. It was rusted, and crusted with old blood, which had started to smell stagnant. He looked at it as if it were his only child, and directed his gaze at Louise. "I wouldn't think about moving much more, darling. I see you're struggling in this body. Don't worry, though, I'll take care of you. I always do." He took another step forward. She could smell him now. The fact that he was a good eight inches taller than Louise didn't help either.

"Look, is this going to take long? I have somewhere I need to be." She said loudly, exuberating confidence out of nowhere. Louise talked loudly enough to make sure the man, no matter how close he was, wouldn't hear the faint clicking the volume button on her phone was making. There. She had done her job. Louise Chase was officially assisting the Consulting Detectives. Now she just had to keep the murderer distracted, and away from her, long enough for John, Sherlock, and the Police to pick up the phone and listen long enough to get where she was.

It was risky. But it was worth a shot.

Louise took her hands out of her pockets and edged around the man. Retreating further into the darkness, but keeping away from the knife. She turned and looked up at him. "Go on then, tell me, how will you take care of me? I'm dying to know." Curiosity seemed to fill her voice at she looked at him. He smiled, revealing almost green teeth, some of them were missing. "Well, my love, I'll release you from this body. This one shall die, and you can be free to enter the heavens you were banished from. You probably don't remember this, that's what they do to you. They distract you. They make you forget."

He seemed to truly believe all he said. She had to give whoever was listening something to work with and something fast.

"Oh, that sounds brilliant! Could I just have a few minutes left for this body then? Please? I'd love to just," She paused for a breath, "take in the human world; and all my surroundings one last time." She wandered about for a moment, looking for something she could use. "Ah, _The Prancing Pony_, seems to be a bit of an odd name for a pub in Croydon, doesn't it?" Louise stated; light heartedly. Hopefully that would be enough for her audience, but she needed more, just in case.

She turned to the man, and smiled at him. He looked simply shocked. Louise started to walk towards him again. "So, how exactly do you plan on freeing me then? Just so I understand completely." She smiled sweetly again, hoping he would go into a rant, that would give her a good few minutes. He stammered for a moment before starting.

"Well, I would – I'd start by destroying the body, oh, I've never been asked this before. I'd then, have to recite these words while your soul left, I found it in the library." He started to pull out a page ripped from a book. He stopped. He looked at Louise, who was starting to panic. "And?" She said, trying to send him on his way again. He looked horrified, he looked betrayed.

"You're a liar."

Louise's heart flew into her throat; she forced it down and stood very still, looking at the man, who was now holding the knife higher, as if ready to use it. "I – I'm sorry?" She distanced herself from him, not that a few inches would help.

"You're a liar. All my Angels know nothing about their previous divinity. They want to stay, to be stuck like this, when they could do so much more!" He seemed to be fighting back tears. "You want this, if you were real, you'd be afraid, like they were. They did send you, didn't they?"

He moved towards her, brandishing the knife. Louise backed away once more. "No, you don't understand, who are 'they?' I'm different from the others!"

"_You tricked me!"_

"No, I would never!" Louise tried to keep her voice calm, reasoning. She didn't let her panic come through. "Aren't you listening? I'm different; I'm not like the ones before, look at me!"

The man in front of her lowered the knife. He was silent for a moment. Louise could hear John calling out in the distance. The man, even if he did hear John, didn't react. He wouldn't recognise the doctor's voice anyway, they had never met.

The man smiled. Louise was still trying to distract him long enough for John, possibly with Sherlock, to find them. She smiled back. "See?" She said, quietly, softly, as if talking to a child. She took her large glasses off her face, so the man could see her properly. "Different." He said, cocking his head to the side, realisation burst onto his face. He gasped, and took a step forward "You're normal, but you want this."

John must have been close by now. Louise looked at the man, just a few more minutes.

"Yes."

The man chuckled. Louise had run out of time, John wasn't going to make it. The man grabbed hold of the girl, turning her round and holding her down.

There's a completely different ritual for this then. He laughed darkly and pierced the flesh between Louise's shoulder blades. She screamed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey, guys! This is officially the longest story I've ever written now, woo! *balloons cascade from the sky* school's back on now, and I've got one hell of a rehearsal schedule so I will be even less regular than I usually am :P ah well, I'm really enjoying this now, so hopefully I won't rest until it's finished! Finally getting to the crux of the story, so, hehehe, I'm going to really enjoy writing these next few chapters xD got a couple of ideas for another Sherlock fic (maybe using this little universe, not too sure yet!) so watch out for that sometime soon! Feel free to read and review, just so I can know what you think :D**

**Btw Disclaimer: I own nothing! Maybe Moffat and Gatiss will just allow me Moriarty, they killed him off and obviously don't want him anymore, I'll take him off there hands... :)**

**Enjoy xxx**

Sherlock rushed down the dark alleyways, working harder than usual to keep up with the figure darting through the shadows just ahead of him. John was long gone, he never could go quite as fast, but Sherlock didn't have time to worry about that now. The distance between the two of them was closing, with every stride Sherlock was getting closer. The man would have to tire soon, sometime soon.

Sherlock could hardly see his target now, just a silhouette in the fast fading light as he turned a sharp right. Dead end. The man had stopped, facing the wall. It was over.

Sherlock strolled forward, grabbing the man and turning him around, "So, what have you got to say for yourse-"

He stopped.

This was of course, a perfectly ordinary looking man, no disfigurements, not overly good looking, not overly ugly either. He was wearing dark jeans with a black hooded jumper, concealing a blue baseball cap. The face, however, was that of none other than James Moriarty.

Moriarty grinned at the detective, who had immediately stopped in his tracks. He replied "Boo." Before edging around Sherlock, getting closer to his escape, but showing no signs of leaving. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You had nothing to do with this, why are you here?" He asked, stepping forward, having recovered from the initial shock. Moriarty just shrugged. "For kicks?" He offered, the scoffed at the look on Sherlock's face. "Oh, come on! Consulting Criminal here Sherly! You think I wouldn't be involved in serial murder?" he chuckled.

Sherlock had winced at the word "Sherly" but took a breath, and tried to ignore it. "Well, you're here instead of the one we're after-"

"His name's Daniel."

"Thank you. So you're here and Daniel is...?" Sherlock invited Moriarty to continue. The criminal took the chance. "No idea," He dragged out each syllable. "He's probably where you left him. I heard you gained a new one, by the way."

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, feigning ignorance. "A new one?"

"Yes, a little ordinary person to follow you around all day."

"Ah yes. She's very nice, you two would get on."

"I imagine so."

Moriarty took a few paces away from Sherlock. "Anyway, she's probably tucked up in bed by now. Good thing too, with a crazy murderer roaming the streets." He cocked his head, and shrugged, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. His pale lips curled with glee.

"Speaking of ordinary people; how's John? Haven't seen him for," The smaller man looked around and over Sherlock's shoulder. "Well, quite some time now. I do hope he's all right."

Sherlock's face changed. He looked horror-stricken. He realised while he was having a battle of wits with Moriarty, he'd left his friend alone with a madman who knew exactly how to lurk in these shadows. "What did you do?" He asked, trying to keep his voice from breaking. Moriarty seemed to relish in the sound of Sherlock's voice for a moment, before losing all emotion completely. "I said I wanted kicks earlier. Thanks for that, go find your pet now." He gestured in an effort to 'Shoo' Sherlock away.

Sherlock snapped.

He grabbed hold of Moriarty by the front of his jumper, and pulled him up close. They were nose to nose. "Now you listen. Firstly, you better have made sure you were specific to that Daniel. If he hurts John, he deserves to know who is coming." Moriarty raised an eyebrow at this point. "Ooh, a bit cocky, aren't we?"

"You know what I could do."

"And you know what I could do."

Sherlock shook Moriarty for a moment, bringing his attention back. "Secondly, if what you say is true, you should know you're not only hurting John and me tonight. You've set a crazed murderer on a little girl who lives with no one but her father. I hope you're happy."  
Something flashed in Moriarty's eyes. Sherlock couldn't fully recognise it as it left as quickly as it appeared. His mask was repaired. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal both moved away from each other at the same time, brushing themselves off. Moriarty sneered.

"Until next time then, love. Go save your little boring people."

And with that Sherlock was alone.

(O_O)

John heard a soft buzz coming from his pocket; he took out his phone, squinting as the sudden light hurt his eyes. 'Louise Chase' read the caller ID. He pressed the little green button and quietly listened, whilst heading back the way he came to find her.

"_I'd start by destroying your body."_

John could hear everything their suspect said. He seemed mad, John picked up the pace, but his leg had started to play up recently, and he wasn't as agile as normal. Not that he was agile anyway. As long as Louise could keep him distracted for just a few minutes, he'd be able to get to her. What would he do then, though? He had his gun, but when he reached into his pocket, the only thing he could find was a tissue. It must have been pick-pocketed, but when? The only plausible explanation was the tube, but –

Sherlock Holmes.

John made a mental note to take vengeance later, maybe through hiding all his cigarettes, or just throwing the skull at him. The one time he actually needed his gun, Sherlock had taken it off him. John realised in his anger he had completely ignored what was happening on the other end of the phone line.

"_You tricked me!"_

Right, time's up. John started to run, as much as his leg would allow him. He knew it wasn't real, but it still somehow managed to get to him. He could hear Louise's screams just ahead. _'Please let me get there in time,' _He thought, turning corners and fighting his way through the darkness. At last he saw her. Louise had seemed to have shrunk to half her size, curled up against the brick wall. The backs of her clothes were ripped, her hair was knotted and bruises were forming on her wrists. The cause of these injuries was nowhere to be seen. Louise looked up at John, and almost smiled, relief spreading across her face. John helped her up, and held onto her tight, John maybe have been short, but Louise was miniscule by comparison. She buried her face into his chest, and they just stayed there for a moment.

When Louise seemed ready, John moved away from her, he'd seen these injuries before. On women in Afghanistan, after they'd been found by his regiment, and-

"Did he..?" He asked, internally begging for a good answer. She shook her head, "No," She said, "But he can't have gone far. We need to find Sherlock, before anyone else does." Even when attacked like this, she still could make sense of some things. John shook his head, "Correction, _I_ need to find Sherlock, _you_ need to go to the hospital. Before anything else happens." She looked up at him, her brown eyes bursting from the dirt and blood smeared across her face. "Not yet," She said, "you think after that, I'm really going to wander the streets by myself?"

For a minor who had decided to wander off in the middle of the night into a different part of the city with two men she barely knew, John had to admit she did have a lick of sense about her. Sometimes. "Fair point," He said, detaching himself from her. "If I put you in a cab which goes straight to St. Bart's, then will you be all right?"

Louise took a breath, and looked away for a moment, and murmured:

"I suppose so."

"Good. Come here, we'll get you back safe, I can call your dad if you want-"

"No!" Louise exclaimed, quickly before regaining her composure. "I can do that once I'm there. Go on, I hope you find him."

John hailed a cab, and with a fleeting smile, Louise was gone. Safe.

John turned away from the busy street, straightened up, and strode back into the darkness to find his friend.

Where their new friend was waiting

("")

Sherlock had been retracing his steps for a good ten minutes now, and he still seemed no closer to wherever John was. He'd noticed about halfway through a missed call from Louise.

That was when the detective broke into a sprint.

He had to get back. He needed to find his friends before anyone else could get to them.

Hmm. Friends. Sherlock had never really thought with that word before. He knew John was a friend. His only one, in fact. Yet Louise had come along so suddenly, yet she was so easy to trust. He'd always found other people tediously boring, and yet...

Sherlock shook away the thought before it could go any further. He managed to find just about where he and John had split off. He looked around for his blogger, who was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock stood in utter silence for a moment, taking everything in. The bin had been moved slightly since his last visit, a small animal, probably a cat, had clawed away at some massacred rodent in the corner, which was now left to rot. No sign of John or Louise.

Then the stench came. A cold, but warm, metallic scent filled the air. You can't solve murders for a living and not learn the smell of blood.

Oh no. Oh no no no no. Sherlock started to panic, and searched. Round the other side of the bin he found it. Reasonably fresh, but already drying, staining the wall and floor. A pattern of drip marks had fallen to the floor, indicating smaller cuts. A full stab wound would have left spatters of blood pressed up against the wall. This had to be a good thing. The wound wouldn't be fatal.

But where was the wounded?

A foot scratched against the floor. A careless slip, which gave Sherlock the exact location of whoever had made the sound. He turned sharply to his left and rushed down a smaller alleyway, to the left of the first one he took earlier on.

The stench came again. It was stronger, too strong in fact, to be somewhat safe. Sherlock followed his nose until he found the source, and his heart fell through his stomach.

John Watson was lying before him, barely conscious, trying to stop the bleeding.


	8. Chapter 8

**Good Morning Sherlockians! (it might be the middle of the night for you, but over here it's morning, so ha!) Sorry about the delay, writing's been a lot slower recently, with school and shiz like that :P Sorry about last time's mini cliffhanger (if you can even call it that) I don't normally do them, it felt so weird :P Feel free to drop in a review, I'd love to ear your opinions :D**

**Enjoy!  
xxx**

Sherlock Holmes was terrified.

That was the only explanation. He couldn't quite pinpoint what he was so frightened of, but he had only felt this fear before, with the hound. Sherlock was now acquainted with fear, but still couldn't understand why it had made itself present now. The hospital was a perfectly safe place to be, but what was he fearful of? He had sat in the same chair for exactly one hour and seventeen minutes, on the first floor, waiting for John's surgery to finish. Sherlock looked down, and found his hands tightly knotted together. Most of the blood was gone now, it just appeared as a faint pinkish stain on his flesh, but had crusted in the harder to reach crevices. There had been so much blood, for such a small body.

"_Sherlock," John groaned, craning his neck to see the detective. "Give me a hand, would you?" _

_Sherlock had temporarily frozen on the spot, then burst back into life, he knelt down next to his friend to inspect the damage. John had a deep cut, which had snagged on more flesh when it was pulled out, leaving a deep gash, complete with a steady flow of blood across his abdomen. Sherlock stared in horror as he realised he had no idea how to fix this. He looked to John, not caring what anyone thought of him, and pleaded with the man "What do I do?" he took John's face in both his hands, demanding full attention. John looked blearily at him, processing. _

"_Right," He finally said, "get me lying down, and then call an ambulance." _

_Sherlock did just that. He looked to John, not needing to say anything, John could already see it. John pushed himself upright for a moment so he could see the jagged slice across his stomach. _

"_Ok," He said, moving the pressure he was holding on his stomach only for a second, to replace it under his shirt. "Now, you need to move my clothes from the wound, actually, take it off." He added as an afterthought, and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Sherlock. "I need material to try and stop this bleeding, and this one already needs a wash." John lifted the checked shirt where the dirty orange and hazy yellow had been stained by his near-black blood._

_Sherlock nodded, then rolled the shirt to around John's middle and left it there. Before John could ask he yanked off his scarf, tied it into a loose ball and pressed it against John's stomach. After John had sighed in exasperation he looked at his friend and explained "That's your favourite shirt, that amount of blood I can wash off, and this material is thicker anyway," he trailed off, until "it can absorb more." was only just audible._

_Sherlock pressed down hard on the wound. As if he could push hard enough to force the escaped blood back into John's body, and avoid all that was about to unfold._

"_You know, you only need one hand for that." _

"_And another thing, just, don't let me fall asleep, please."_

"_How do you suppose I do that?"_

"_I don't know, shock me or something, I.." He trailed off._

_Without looking, Sherlock's hand managed to find John's in the darkness. Both men were shaking, and they stayed silent for a moment. _

"_You'll be fine," Sherlock's voice shot through the quiet. "You always are, I know you will be because, you're John, you're the safe doctor who'll tell me off at the end of a night of chasing and running and nearly getting myself killed." He rushed, staring directly at John now. "I'm the mad detective who gallivants around London all night and shoots walls all day, you're the blogger who tells me off and keeps everyone around you safe. So you'll be fine, because you always are. That's the way it's supposed to be, and don't question it, because I know." _

_John looked up at Sherlock. All pretences were gone now, all John could see was a little boy in an oversized coat, waiting for his best friend to get back up, shouting: 'Fooled you!' but John couldn't do that._

"_Sherlock," He began, trying to keep himself and his friend calm._

"_Stop it." Sherlock spat the words out, as if a firm hand could keep John with him for a few more minutes. "Don't you dare."_

_John looked up at his detective, neither man really had ever thought, of what would happen after they couldn't live together. It just felt like they'd be with each other for ever, but John was beginning to doubt that. the scarf now had lost its blue colour, now it was a stinking red, moist and moving over John's flesh. _

"_Sherlock,"_

"_Please don't-"_

"_Sherlock!" _

_The words came out slurred now, Sherlock felt his heart plummet down through his ribcage, and for once, he didn't know what to do._

_John whispered, nearly inaudible "I think it's time you had that shock sorted by now," as his body began to sag under Sherlock's hand. _

_He panicked. He wanted to reverse all that was happening, push the blood back into John, sew up his wounds, and hold him until he was strong enough._

_But a shock would do for now._

_Without thinking, Sherlock bent down and plunged his mouth onto John's. Maybe if they stayed connected for a tiny bit, Sherlock could breathe some of his life into John. It was a desperate kiss, pulling John back into the alleyway. His eyes shot open for a moment, his soft blue eyes meeting Sherlock's harsh grey. Sherlock pulled away, his eyes never leaving John's. A nervous laugh appeared, from which man they would never know. _

_It wasn't enough, apparently._

_Now John's eyes were closed it was safe for Sherlock to let his own tears fall._

He had held John like that until he could hear the ambulance pulling up next to him. They had taken John away and refused to say anything. Sherlock knew there was still a pulse when John was taken from him. Now he was stuck here, in an uncomfortable chair, surrounded by other worried friends and family who weren't quite as well trained as Sherlock. The screaming and the crying and the breaking down, it was all becoming rather tiresome to Sherlock.

One hour and twenty-two minutes.

He tapped his hand against the arms of the chair, hoping a rhythm would be something to cling to, rather than the dull aches all over his body, letting him know he was still alive. He had tried to see if Louise had been admitted but no one would tell him anything. Even though he had taken his hands away from his chair, the tapping reverberated around his head, making him feel worse.

Half of the time he felt he was floating, drifting away to a place where he could escape all this. Yet the other half felt a loyalty to John, pulling him back to Earth, almost saying 'No, you got him in this mess, you're not switching off now!'

It wasn't fair. Sherlock had unwittingly given half of himself to John, and that half was now somewhere in this hospital possibly bleeding to death. He wasn't a whole person anymore, and couldn't be if John decided to leave him. If John couldn't stay anymore, he would take that part of Sherlock with him. Sherlock wouldn't even to be able to go back to the way it was, being not even a full person. John would be fine somewhere else and Sherlock would be alone.

That was downright selfish.

But it was selfish for Sherlock to have stolen that kiss. That could well be the last thing John ever saw and Sherlock, he, he positively attacked him. He didn't think about it, it just happened, he didn't mean it, it was just a good distraction.

Right?

Sherlock sighed. _Wrong._ He couldn't quite understand where it came from, or why he did it, but he knew that he had enjoyed it. Which he shouldn't have done. John was in an incredibly vulnerable state and he just acted on his own desire.

When he thought he didn't know anything about the kiss, he was sort of lying. There had been some moments in these few years with John, that he felt, just... content. Sherlock had decided long ago he'd end up spending the rest of his life with John; there was no choice in the matter. If this was how he felt when John was just in hospital, imagine how hollow he would be without his blogger at all.

When Sherlock returned to Earth he found a doctor looking down at him, his face filled with mock sympathy.

"I understand you're John Watson's next of kin?"

Attempting to consider his options, Sherlock replied with "Yes." And pushed himself out of his seat, his mind was bursting with questions, with answers he didn't know. He hated it. Was this how it was like all of the time for other people? Sherlock couldn't stand it.

"Is he..?" Was all he could say before the doctor started his explanation.

"Don't worry, he should be fine." The doctor paused as Sherlock released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "But John has lost a fair amount of blood, and we're going to keep him in for a few days, and he shouldn't be expected to work for at couple of weeks." He had a weedy tone, with a hint of patronising.

"Yes, yes, of course," Sherlock rushed, yet still keeping half of his icy demeanour, "but can I see him?"

The doctor sighed and cocked his head slightly, getting more and more tedious by the minute, "Yes, but remember, John may still be a little groggy from the surgery. Try to be gentle with him."

Utterly insulted that he might do anything else, Sherlock pushed past the doctor, unable to stand the man any longer. It didn't take long for him to get to the room. He found John, half sat up in his bed, his face drawn. Sherlock relished in the way it lit up when he entered the room, and pulled a chair next to the bed holding his only friend.

Sherlock silently reached out, carefully taking hold of John's hand, where they sat in silence for a moment.

Only a moment, though.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered, so quietly John had to strain to hear it.  
John gave Sherlock an incredulous look. "Why me?" He asked; his voice full of curiosity. Sherlock looked him in the eye for the first time since sitting down. "For staying alive, I guess." He said, with what was almost a shrug. John noticed a change in his friend; he was more conscientious, he wasn't rushing John, he was gentle. In a way, more human.

John paused, "well," He replied, "thanks for keeping me that way I guess."

Sherlock couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"I'm so sorry about all this," He blurted out, "I'm so sorry that I left you, without thinking everything through, I'm sorry I almost got you killed, I'm sorry about putting Louise – who's technically your responsibility – in this position, and getting you into trouble, I- I-"

"Sherlock!" John stopped him in his tracks. He spoke slowly and calmly, but much more comforting than that doctor. "It's fine, I'm fine. Well, I will be in a week or two. It's not like we don't do this often, I just wasn't careful enough this time. Louise is all right, she's in the hospital, but her dad's there and..." He paused for a breath, "We're not permitted to see her. Which is fair enough." John looked horrified, "She was hurt that bad?"

"I don't think so, she didn't look too bad when I saw her." John said, _'But you never know'_ would have followed if they both hadn't already thought of it.

Sherlock turned away again, "I need to apologise for one more thing." He said, his grip tightening on John's hand, not enough to hurt, but definitely firm. "Just before you passed out, when I... I'm sorry for what I did. It won't happen again, I promise you." John tilted his head, so he could see his friend better. "What did you do?" He asked, oblivious to Sherlock's minor shock.

"You don't remember?" The detective said.

"Don't remember much from then," John stated, "Just that you were there."

Sherlock attempted to think of an appropriate way of explaining it, when John saved him.

"Don't worry," he said, half smiling at Sherlock, "We can talk about it some other time, when I'm out of here maybe." They shared a smile for a short minute. Sherlock was first to restart the conversation. "Is there anything from the flat I can bring you? Clothes, a book, perhaps?" John thought for a moment, and then gave his instructions. "Oh, and can you smuggle me in a sandwich, too? The ones here are crap."

Sherlock chuckled, and then left for his errands.

John allowed a soft smile to play along his features as Sherlock left, thinking that it was probably easier for now to pretend to have forgotten his kiss. He and Sherlock could discuss it later. It was easy to play the dopey victim for now. But he had most certainly not forgotten.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi guys! I'm so sorry this took ages to update, I've had this chapter for a while, but year eleven is scarier than I thought :O So here's chapter nine, all ready for you! Feel free to drop in a review, let me know what you think, and scold me for leaving this for so long :D  
Enjoy xxx**

Jim Moriarty was furious.

_When Holmes first mentioned the presence of the child, Jim assumed he must be bluffing. Only for a second though, Jim had looked into that man's eyes and seen there was no hint of a lie in there. Watson didn't matter, but while little Miss Chase was wondering around London in the dead of night, so was Danny Claydon. He was the most violent, insane, and unintelligent of all the men he's worked with over the years. He'd given Claydon strict instructions to save his energy for Watson; that was the most important thing tonight. It had been weeks since Jim's last fix, and he was starting to feel desperate. _

_He knew Claydon had vowed to follow his instructions, but the man was very good at steering off track, if only for a moment. But a moment was all he needed to screw everything up. Jim left Holmes with a little hint of where the detective should actually be right now, and disappeared._

_Marching through the darkness, Jim got the phone call_

"_Ah, hello, is James Moriarty there?" a pathetic lilt of sweet peas in her voice couldn't disguise the thick treacle of exhaustion as Jim heard the woman on the other end stifle a yawn. Most definitely a receptionist. "Yes, this is he," He replied, fearing the worst was coming, "Is there a problem?" Jim waited patiently for the woman to collect her thoughts before bringing any news. "This is St Bartholomew's Hospital, a teenage girl called Louise Chase has come into our care, and I believe she's a family member?"_

"_Yes," Jim Swallowed, "she's my daughter."_

"_Well," The person on the other end continued, giving the address and the extent of the injury, completely oblivious to the fact that Jim had stopped listening. He had known the minute his phone rang what it would be about, but that didn't help the shock. He felt his heart fall through him, through the gaping hole in his chest, caused by his melting inners. Jim could hear a low keening sound through the choking fog that clouded his brain. Yet at the same time, the fog was steaming. The keening sound was beating out waves of red pulsating through him with every corner he turned, getting closer and closer to his target._

_Sebastian Moran turned to face his only friend, his eyes so wide you could see more white than blue. Jim grabbed hold of Sebastian, making up in lack of size for ferocity. He snarled "What happened!?" before Sebastian got his own grip on the consulting criminal. "I don't know!" He cried, both men now trying to free themselves from each other. "One minute he was there, and then he was gone. By the time I found him it was too late!" Sebastian was the only person Jim would let in, only Sebastian could see him like this. Jim felt like he should be falling apart, at his little girl's bedside, praying for her to get better. "Where is he now?" Jim snapped, then immediately after silently apologising for his harsh tones, which had now dropped into a muddy green, his least favourite. Sebastian nodded his head to his left. As both men loosened their grips on one another, they turned to see Danny Claydon, curled up in the filth, letting out whitish blue glitters of a whimper, shattering in the air around Jim. _

_Jim felt the bile rise in his throat, he could taste his pure loathing of the creature before him. He only realised he had stepped forward when Sebastian a strong hand on his arm, steadying him. Jim looked up to the man, the claws of his tattoo writhing around his neck, only just visible. Jim knew his Tiger would take sort this out. "Take care of him, Seb." He said, turning to face Claydon now. "I have to go see my daughter." _

_Jim felt a shiver run right through him as he walked away, hearing the burgundy droplets of pain ebbing through the streets._

He had given strict instructions to both men that _only John was to be targeted._ Had he not made that clear? Now he was waiting on the second floor - as he had been for twenty minutes - to see his only child and know she was ok. No one would tell him anything, doctors and nurses kept on telling Jim to remain calm and stay where he was, he'd be the first to know anything.

Then they wandered off down the corridor, contributing to the hollow sounds that bounced around him and made the glowing stench of bleach even more obvious. He rubbed him thumb against his palm, in an attempt to focus on something else, he'd already tried humming the 1812 Overture, and scanning the area for any possible hint of that burgundy liquid he so often craved for. Nothing helped. Jim knew Louise was here somewhere, he knew she was hurt, but he had no clue how badly, or how long it would be before she could see him.

Or forgive him.

He had taken off his hooded jumper, revealing a plain white T-shirt covered by a red woollen cardigan. He was awarded by some strange looks from other family members, how could one man wear so many layers in Spring? Jim was always cold. Always. Somehow he survived winter every year, whilst Louise practically melted in a home filled with piping hot radiators. He could feel every inch of him overheating. Beads of sweat started to form across the back of his neck. Jim took a few breaths, in an attempt to calm himself down. If course it didn't work. Every time someone new appeared from the ward, Jim would look up expectantly, but he was always ignored.

So far, five doctors and nurses had brought news, none for him.

A worried partner had been told he could go and see the patient; he'd wept gratefully and thrown himself down the corridor. A set of parents had been told they could never see their little boy again; they'd been carefully led off by one of the gentler nurses. A daughter was told to come back in the morning, and a brother had been notified of his twin's death. That was all.

That was four.

The fifth nurse was stood in front of him.

He leapt out of his seat, towering over the tiny blonde. Before Jim could get any words out she spoke, softly. "She's fine," She started, waiting for Jim to release the breath he'd been holding, "We're just keeping her overnight to be sure. She'll probably be quite upset about all this-"

_Quite, that's an understatement._ His thoughts interrupted.

"-and she may not want to talk about it, I suggest you don't push her too much, at least not tonight." Jim didn't need to; he knew exactly what had happened. Jim supposed her voice was meant to be soothing, but it was nothing of the sort. She sounded hoarse, tired, and Jim could feel the damp metallic sound sliding across his skin. He repressed a shudder as he was shown to Louise's bedside. Her face lit up the moment he was in view, and Jim slowly made his way over to his daughter. He looked to the nurse, who took her cue to leave the small family alone.

Louise shifted in her bed, getting herself into a better position, while Jim took no chances. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, placing his hand on her neck, resting his chin on her head. Louise tucked herself underneath her father, her face pressed into his chest, her eyes shut tight. Jim could feel Louise shaking beneath him, and he murmured words of comfort into her hair. He took in everything he could, her soft pink scent which usually floated around her clung to her flesh, threatening to claw away at the girl. He could feel her irregular breathing stabbing into his chest, little splinters poking at him until he could bear his daughter's pain no longer. They stayed in this position for some time, until Jim's arms began to ache. When they broke apart Jim finally took the opportunity to see Louise's eyes, which seemed almost black, reflected in the bags spreading under her eyes, her flushed face, and her features, knotted together. No face had caused Jim more pain to see. Those black pools which had been Louise's eyes threatened to swallow him up, and hold him in their grasp until he could no longer breath.

Louise flopped down, resting against her pillow. Jim collected himself then sat down on a rickety chair by her bedside, which threw brown splinters from beneath him. He pushed away a grimace and took his daughters hand, she smiled at him. "Stop it," She said, giving his hand a squeeze "I'm fine." Jim rubbed his thumb across her palm, calming himself more than Louise. "I highly doubt 'multiple lacerations across the back' is fine, in anyone's book." He said, quoting a doctor from earlier. Louise almost flinched at the memory of it, and Jim instantly regretted mentioning anything.

He pulled the chair closer to the bed, the feet of it scraping against the floor, juddering through Jim's body. He tried to think of how to put his next words.

"Thank you," He started, "for the past couple of weeks. I really appreciate what you've done, it's helped so much." Louise looked hurt, Jim knew he hadn't said it right, and tried to find another way to put it. "I'm also so sorry for what they did to you." This, Jim found, was much easier to say. "The information you've got me, in incredibly valuable, but it wasn't worth this. Nothing," He looked around him for a moment, "is worth any of this." Louise squeezed his hand, and Jim pulled away. This wasn't right; he was the father in his thirties who should be comforting his teenage daughter, not the other way around. Louise knew it too, but didn't say anything; she only offered a small smile and straightened up. "It starts tomorrow, doesn't it?" She said in a quiet voice, much more like her natural peach vowels which always managed to calm Jim. "Yes, it does." He said, attempting to smile, a little comfort to Louise, he hoped. "But I can hold it off, you never have to see them again, this was to be your last night the whole time, I can go to the tower next week, when you're all right again, don't worry." Jim rushed, he was determined not to leave his daughter while she was still stuck here and hurt so badly.

The look on Louise's face stopped him. "No, you've planned this for months, there's no way you're backing out now. Everything's in place, I can wait." Over the years Louise had managed to mask most of her troubles from her father, but every now and then something would crop up, and she'd be left unable to hide anything. Jim knew she'd told a lie, so did Louise. Neither one of them decided to point it out. Jim's mind went into overdrive, moving everyone around in his head, there were so many people involved, so many places and intricacies. Louise could see Jim had escaped the real world for a moment, and, as always, waited patiently for him to return.

"Seb isn't doing anything tomorrow; he can pick you up in the morning and stay home with you for a while," Jim said, knowing Sebastian would comply, he loved Louise as if she were his own. Yet Jim was feeling a little apprehensive of leaving his daughter so soon, "if you're all right with that." He mumbled as an afterthought. Louise raised an eyebrow. "You said yourself, you'll only be gone for a day or two, and by that time I'll be well enough to spend an hour or two in court. I'll never leave your or Seb's sight, and I'll be perfectly safe." She smiled at him, and Jim felt the lights brighten a bit around the ward. It all made sense, Jim now had even more motive to get to Holmes. After all, it was his fault his daughter was hurt, and his fault...

Jim sighed, not daring to raise his eyes to Louise. "You're sure?" He asked, almost inaudible. She nodded, which Jim could see out of the corner of his eye. "Okay," He said, taking in a deep breath and straightening up, "I should be able to stay the night with you, I'll ring Sebastian in a minute and he'll be here in the morning. I might not be there when you wake up." Jim wasn't happy about this, but it was the best he could do at short notice, and it was imperative now that he got to Sherlock. He'd waited years for a chance like this. Jim excused himself from Louise's bedside and moved away to call Sebastian Moran, everything was falling into place, and he felt almost guilty for realising a smile was slowly creeping onto his face.

**Basically because I love Jim so much I made an excuse for him being an utter psychopath :P I always think of him as living with synesthesia, a neurological condition altering how you view the world, hence the sounds, sights and smells from certain emotions are attractive to him. I took some poetic licence saying that it's pain, suffering, and misery that he enjoys (especially Sherlock's) but that's just the way I imagined it :) Hopefully that explains why writing from his point of view is a bit odd :)  
Hope you liked it! xxx**


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